


Changing Everything Carefully

by Ani



Series: Unclose Me (The Falls) [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reichenbach Falls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-22
Updated: 2012-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-31 14:27:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/345031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ani/pseuds/Ani
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock grabbed him and pulled him up and it was John who started the kiss, who pulled Sherlock into him with a moan. And everything became this, this heat, this smooth slide, the slow entanglement, Sherlock pushing him back against the chair, John sliding his hands under Sherlock’s shirt and he gasped and it was that familiar noise that seemed to snap John back.</p><p>“Stop. Stop, Sherlock.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Changing Everything Carefully

            John was wearing dark jeans and an unknown maroon jumper because all of his favourites were already here at the flat. His boots were worn and there was recent mud caked on the side. His hair was the same, not one extra line of grey, but there were new lines around his mouth, from too much frowning...Sherlock raised a hand, to trace them, and then stopped, when he realized that was no longer his right. But John just looked back at him, and smiled a bit, so Sherlock very gently and slowly memorized the new map of his face.

            John had just come in and they were still standing at the door. He hadn’t even taken off his jacket. He didn’t seem to have noticed this. Or cared. He didn’t say anything, either, when Sherlock slipped his jacket off his arms, a brief moment when they were standing chest to chest, his arms on John’s back - then he hung it up and invited John in and offered a cup of tea.

            “Make things weird, why don’t you,” John joked. And Sherlock laughed and when John shook his head and walked into the kitchen to boil the water and Sherlock saw him there, moving around their home with such simple ease, rising on his feet to reach the box of loose leaf, his arm stretching, the hem of his jumper lifting and Sherlock could walk over and trace that line, too, that stretch of skin, the tingling slope of John’s spine, and John wouldn’t say anything (likely) or stop him (less likely - but possible) and the comfort of it was achingly erotic and his eyes blinked and there were _far too many emotions_ and _this was ridiculous_ and Sherlock had to turn and look out the window before it was too much.

            “I thought I should get my things,” John said, pulling down two mugs. He had to reach even further to get one of Sherlock’s, and blow off the dust. This distracted him sufficiently, and he was perhaps far enough away anyway, to not notice the tiny steadying inhale Sherlock made when the sharp cruelty of it bit his throat. “Since I was here anyway,” he continued. He had not turned around. “Why am I here? I mean - I mean not that I wouldn’t, but it seemed urgent.”

            “I needed to see you.”

            “You used... the old words,” John said, sounding confused. He walked in and glanced at his chair but decided to not sit down and Sherlock realized how uncomfortable he felt, and Sherlock blurted it out.

            “This is still yours.” He stepped closer. They were standing farther apart than friends would; Sherlock rather drastically closed that distance. John squared his shoulders and didn’t look up. “I’m still yours.”

            “Sherlock...”

            “I’m sorry,” he said simply. “I am so, so sorry. I felt... I still feel it was necessary. And that I did the correct thing. But I’m sorry for what it did to you.”

John shook his head, like this wasn’t necessary. He pressed on.

            “I’m sorry for leaving you.”

            “Sherlock...” he tried again.

            “I never wanted to.” He leaned forward, to whisper into John’s ear. John could move back. He didn’t. “Not for a minute. I know you think - I know you thought I put Moriarty first, the game, my career. I didn’t. I won’t. You. You are what is most important.”

            “Please don’t,” John whispered back. “I can’t do this.”

            “We can’t be friends?”

            “This is not -” John did step back. He stepped back and looked up at Sherlock. His voice was thick. “This is not being friends. This is - I don’t know that I can do that, Sherlock. Being here. Being with you and not... it’s just too hard.”

            “You’re still in love with me.” Sherlock announced this as if he had just grandly deduced it. “And I’m still in love with you.”

            “It is _not_ that simple.”

            “That’s my fault, too,” Sherlock said, that time as if he was just realizing it, and he was. “That was my fault because I was too good at it... but I _had_ to be, John, I had to do this one thing and do it perfectly so that we could live safely together forever...”

            John smiled sadly. Sherlock talked into his shoulder. It seemed too much, otherwise. He looked at the cables and how perfectly they crossed the seam. He realized this jumper must be homemade and, judging by the color, by Mrs. Hudson. And it pained him to know that he did not already know this, that this and so much had happened while he was gone, that they had lost three years...

            They were not going to lose anymore.

            “I know that it was hard on you John,” he said quietly, “and that my imagination of it is likely insufficient but... but my three years haven’t been pleasant either.” He swiftly unbuttoned and removed his shirt. He knew, when John’s eyes widened, that he was surprised (some) hurt (very) concerned (the most) by the changes, that he was cataloguing the injuries new and old, examining what must still ache and what had healed over, and that too despite everything John thought he _should_ think he was also reacting with hunger... He let his body tell its story and then slid his shirt back on. He re-buttoned more slowly. “What kept me going was not my goal. It was not the puzzle or the chase. Or justice. Or revenge. It was you.”

            John stilled Sherlock’s hands and did the last two buttons himself. Sherlock swallowed heavily and continued. “The time I came closest to dying I was lying bleeding in the Russian snow, with three broken ribs, five men still on my trail, no weapon, and all I wanted was to be back here with my warm John who could make everything better...”

John leaned his head into Sherlock’s chest and sobbed. It was a surprising sound, and Sherlock laid his hand in John’s hair gingerly, not sure what this meant.

            “You idiot,” he said, “you fantastic bloody man, you...Yes, of course I’m still in love with you, I never stopped and it scares me how much I still need you.”

Sherlock grabbed him and pulled him up and it was John who started the kiss, who pulled Sherlock into him with a moan. And everything became this, this heat, this smooth slide, the slow entanglement, Sherlock pushing him back against the chair, John sliding his hands under Sherlock’s shirt and he gasped and it was that familiar noise that seemed to snap John back.

            “Stop. Stop, Sherlock.”

            He stopped. He did not move away. John couldn’t untangle himself without outright pushing him, and didn’t, tried to press down his hair, cheeks tinged red. “I’m still married, Sherlock.”

            “You don’t have to be.”

            “I’m not going to...I can’t leave them for you.”

            “You love me more than you love her,” Sherlock observed.

            He did push him away then, sinking into his chair, tugging down his clothes like it would fix everything. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”

            “It’s true.”

            “Yes. Yes, okay? I love you more and - and I can’t believe I’m saying this, you - I’d leave her for you. Yes. I would.” John’s throat bobbed and Sherlock knew he was pushing him far past  where John was supposed to go, but he was Sherlock, so he pushed forward. “But I can’t. I’m not going to leave my daughter.”

            Sherlock wished that John had finished making that tea because it would probably calm him down quite a bit, but the kettle had clicked off minutes ago, and then he was delighted to revel in what those minutes had done to them. But he took a deep breath, and prepared himself, and said very calmly, “You won’t have to.”

            He groaned. “Sherlock, it doesn’t work like that. I’m not going to stop in on her occasionally. I’m not a weekend dad.”

            “Of course not.”

            “Well I’m not going to sit with her _here_ while you’re off chasing criminals. Can you even imagine a child around these chemicals and that piglet in the sink and...and...” He looked sick. “And strapped in a semtex vest.”

            “No. No,” he repeated firmly, “I would never allow that to happen.”

            John looked like he was going to have one of their ‘the world does not conform itself to your desires’talks and Sherlock leaned forward, took his hands. Then he reconsidered and slipped to one knee. It seemed right.

            “I’m not saying you should raise her here,” he said. “I’m saying _we_ will.”

            The face that John made was beautiful. Sherlock wished he had some way to record it besides memory. It was the most lovely bloom of surprise and Sherlock knew, _knew_ , that he had just fulfilled some secret hope too powerful to voice even to oneself, in the dark.

            John just stared at him, so Sherlock continued. “I’ve been thinking, anyway, of taking an early retirement. Since the game has gotten tiresome. I need a new challenge. From all evidence the shaped growth of a small human fully provides for one.”

            “Sherlock...” The miracle was closing. The light in John’s eyes was growing dim. Doubt was creeping back in. “Sherlock,” he whispered, “I don’t know that you really understand, what you’re saying.”

            “I mean it.”

            “Oh, of course you do. But... but children aren’t an experiment. They’re not something you can un-decide on.”

            “It’s true that I don’t yet have much experience with them. And didn’t when they were my peers.”

            “Right.” John took a deep breath. “And if you ever changed your mind, or got bored...”

            “Never.” Sherlock’s grip on John’s hands tightened.

            “But you can understand, why I can’t take that risk lightly.”

            “Do you not-”

            “I think,” John said slowly, “before we can decide _anything_ , before we can even entertain this mad idea as a possibility in our own brains, you need to come meet Mary.”

            Right. Sherlock had ‘forgotten’ Mary, beyond a necessary calculation. Set her aside. He would need to consider her more fully if he were to create an opportunity. “Of course. She’ll have input on the situation.”

            “Uh, no. This _situation_ can’t come up. We, this, can’t come up. Not yet.”

            The way that John was shifting in his seat implied guilt; Sherlock had several hypothesis but would solve them later. “Agreed.”

            “You meet her, and we’ll see how we all three get along and... and what you think of the baby and... oh!” John grabbed his wallet from his back pocket and pulled out a photograph for Sherlock to see. He considered it carefully; it was obviously a sonogram of the child.

            “It’s fuzzy.”

            John rolled his eyes. “God, I’ve missed you.”

            “But clearly a wonderful child with proud parents and a beautiful future,” Sherlock said politely. He considered the evidence to comment upon directly. “And a large head.”

            “Yeah. We’ll work on this.” John folded it back up and took Sherlock’s hands again. “Come over for dinner tonight. She’s been expecting you.”

            “I expect now you need to go be by yourself for a few moral crises.”

            “Yes, exactly. Come at six.” He paused. “Unless you’re busy?”

            “Not for you. Never for you.”

            A smile. “Look, if this... if this works out somehow and... ask me this question again, okay? I’ll give you a much better answer.” The smile turned more wolfish, that slight smirk of intrigue and danger, John’s smile, and Sherlock couldn’t help but kiss him. John kissed back, briefly, and then squeezed his hands and got up for his jacket and left.

            It was easy to let him go. Once he was alone Sherlock stretched out on the sofa and hummed happily and smiled.

            He knew John.

            He had already won.

 

 

 

            John got out the front door and halfway down the street before his brain started screaming.

            There was, first, a _what what what_ that poured through, and _yes, yes, God yes_ and _no no NO_.

            In an attempt to regain control he recounted what had happened. This was what one did in emergencies, to localize the important information and calm nerves. So in the past half an hour, he had most definitely cheated on his wife, physically (emotionally, he’s not going to analyze right now, because the answer was so darkly guilt-inducing he _cannot_ cope), and the ‘other man’ was, according to his stupid, stupid heart, his one true love. That’s a bloody foolish concept, he told it, sneeringly, but his stupid smug little heart just shrugged happily. Oh and _also_ his apparent soul mate had just _proposed_ to him. That was a proposal, right? Right. John had never been proposed to but he was very certain that was what just happened. Sherlock had proposed to him. _Sherlock proposed to him_. Not just to marry him because that was way too normal for Sherlock, no, he’d just offered for them to _parent together_ and his secret image, the dream he tried to stifle came back: that he  was wanting to hold his baby, that he wanted to take her and hand her to Sherlock, that he wanted to see Sherlock beam and kiss him...

            And John had said yes. John said yes. Not in words, actually, he had hedged, but he hedged because he had to. Because there were certain things he had to do before he would be able to say yes and...

            And John had just divorced his wife.

            The moment he had realized that he’d actually stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Just stood there. Because he’d thought at the time, _I have to see things through_ and _Mary will need the following:_ and _I couldn’t possibly,_ all this negation, all this _not now_ , but he’d already made up his mind. Hadn’t he. By even entertaining the idea, hadn’t he, and now that his heart was giddy and free and going going going that was it. He’d decided to leave Mary. He would do it kindly and slowly and with the best help possible and not until she’d had their child and they’d been through the worst and she’d recovered, but yes. He was going to leave Mary for Sherlock. He was going to create some kind of crazy custody schedule and they’d both see their daughter all the time and that would be okay and he’d comfort Mary while she cried but she’d be understanding and maybe this was better, anyway, to let her find someone who could _truly_ love her and Sherlock apparently thought ‘murder’s a bit boring, time to change some nappies’ and this was an awful thing, wasn’t it? To leave one’s wife? To break a child’s home in two before she was even born?

            His mind started screaming again.

            He marched on for the tube station and got out his phone.

            “Right,” Lestrade said, examining the blueprint of the house with his penlight, “I mean it this time. This is the _last time_ I have this discussion about you two. It’s taking over my life. I deserve some kind of award.”

            “Sherlock’s brother could probably have you knighted.”

            “...I honestly cannot tell if you’re joking.”

            John pointed to the boundaries of the attic and then the left wall. Lestrade nodded agreement and Brooks started knocking. There was a hallow _thump_ three raps down and she happily hefted a crowbar. “There is either going to be a very large collection of antique jewelry or a very dead parrot when we open this secret cupboard. Is what you’re about to tell me any stranger?”

            “Yes.”

            “Okay, I’m prepared then. Go.”

            John succinctly, and with some embarrassment, summarized his afternoon.

            “Not prepared. No.”

            “So, should...”

            “Mr. Watson, I refuse to offer you one more piece of advice. Look where it’s already gotten us.” Lestrade coughed as plaster bloomed into the air.

            John turned away from the dust, squinting, and thought through this statement. “Did you...”

            “I told Sherlock to talk with you. I did _not_ tell him to... do that. Are you really going to - That’s it!” He threw a mask on and waded in. Grumbled complaints and the sound of a rustling trash bag informed John that it was not the hidden jewelry. “You’re going to have to arrest the mistress. And alert the insurance company.”

            “I am,” John said, when Lestrade returned, stripping off his blue coverall. Lestrade sneezed twice and then gave him a rather hopeless look.

            “That poor woman.”

            “I know. I know,” he admitted, “I don’t...I can’t believe I’d ever do this to her, but...”

            “Can’t help where love leads you, eh? Just ask my ex-wife.” He looked poised to say something more, and then, “So you’re all having dinner? To be a fly on _that_ wall.”

            “Do you want to come?”

            “Oh hell no.”

            “Sorry, Greg. I know we owe you.”

            “Yes. Yes you do. You know how much paperwork Sherlock owes me?”

            “A lot?”

            “Yes. _Yes_ .”

            John went home and cleaned up the parlor, and carried up all the clutter that seemed to migrate to the stairs on its own accord, and was thumbing through a cookbook when Mary returned. She set down her shopping on the table and kissed him and asked him how things were going.

            He told her about the dinner.

            Just the dinner.

            She was thrilled and suggested they order out and shouldn’t you buy some wine for you two, dear, maybe I’ll have just a tiny glass. I picked up that print today, won’t it look lovely in her room?

            This, this is the worst thing I have ever done, John decided. And every time she smiled he felt that deafening roar of a scream drown out everything but the weakest smile back.

 

**Author's Note:**

> My apologies for not updating in so long. I *am* working on it, I just burned out a little after NaNo, and then life got in the way. Including Series 2 which, just, OH GOD. This story, though, is going to remain in the Series 1 canon.


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